


Hurt

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Series: MadaTobi Week [5]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 17:52:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro
Summary: Prompt:Fake relationship/hidden relationship(fromMadaTobi Week 2018).





	Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Fake relationship/hidden relationship_ (from **[MadaTobi Week 2018](https://madatobiweek.tumblr.com/post/174594542851/madatobi-week-2018-prompts)** ).

She comes to him in daylight, slipping through the sliding door that leads to the backyard.

He knows that — soon — he will have her. Against the stone wall. Upon the earth. Anywhere he pleases. He will lead her. She will acquiesce. He will take her apart with hands and teeth and tongue and every touch will feel like a lie.

Soon, he will be inside her. She will cling to him, all arms and legs and smooth, smooth skin. She will moan his name.

He will think of another.

  


* * *

  


He dreams of their old apartment. Broken glass in the sink.

The telephone to his ear, Hashirama's voice through the speakers.

He tries to focus on the conversation, but he can't.

He can't take his eyes off of Madara, pressing a dishrag to his bleeding hand.

Hashirama's voice is static in his ear. Water from the faucet. Against the glass. Madara's breath molded into the sharp hiss of pain, into heated curses.

Tobirama always dreams of Madara, even when he isn't sleeping.

Dreams of blood from a palm, red running down his fingers.

  


* * *

  


Red. Everywhere.

It fans out beneath her, upon the grass. Red, like her lips, like the blood upon her nipple where he'd just bitten her hard.

His fingers inside her. They forge a ruthless rhythm. She yields to him, lips parted around soft moans. Her eyes upon his. Sweat upon her nose, her upper lip. The soft skin of her belly, quivering beneath him.

She is so much like Madara.

She is nothing like him at all.

  


* * *

  


He tells Hashirama he would call him back.

Sees the way Madara's eyes light up at the mention of Hashirama's name.

Pretends he doesn't notice.

  


* * *

  


Sun upon his back. Sweat clings to his skin the way she clings to him. He feels suffocated, in all this empty space, with all this air.

Mito's hands. The desperate press of them against his flesh. Her thighs around his waist. Her breasts squashed beneath him.

He closes his eyes. Feels her hair in his grip and imagines rougher, thicker strands, midnight-dark. Hot breath against his cheek. A deeper voice, moaning his name.

His opens his eyes. Finds soft gray where he hopes to find blazing black. He hates the way she looks at him. With lust. With longing. With _pity._

With no warning, he pulls out, flips her over. Harsh grips upon her hips. She will wear his bruises for days.

He sinks into her, tears a sharp cry from her throat.

He doesn't have to ask if he hurts her. He _wants_ to. Wants her to feel his contempt in every thrust. Wants her body to burn with the memory of him, inside and out.

He knows that she will take the hurt, will leave it behind when this is over. It will fall from her the way her hair cascades down her shoulders, her back, like a blood red waterfall.

And he will keep on hurting.

  


* * *

  


Madara's hand in his.

Tobirama cleans the wound, wraps a bandage around it. He wants to press his kiss upon the cut, but he is afraid.

Afraid that it would be Hashirama's name he hears upon Madara's lips.

  


* * *

  


He keeps his hands upon her hips.

Does not reach around. Does not want to feel the _wrongness_ of her, coming apart beneath his touch.

He thinks about Madara. The flat planes of his body. The sharpness of his hips. His skin, pale as Mito's, the perfect contrast to the deep black of his eyes, his raven hair.

Madara's voice.

Tobirama knows what he sounds like, when he loses himself to passion, to desire. Knows what he sounds like when he comes. The wall they once shared was thin as it was mocking.

Tobirama knows Madara too much, too well.

Madara doesn't know him at all.

  


* * *

  


His world narrows. It always does, when Madara is with him.

Madara's hand is warm. His breath, slow. Steady. Close.

So trusting. So unafraid. So _unaware._

Tobirama would hate him if he knew how.

  


* * *

  


She's close and he knows it. He can hear it in the way her breath comes, loud and urgent. The pitch of her moans. The way she trembles beneath him, clenches tight around him.

He can hear it in the plea she withholds. He knows that she wants him to touch her. To slide his fingers along her clit, slick his palm with her wetness.

He knows that _she_ knows he will not.

He will tighten his grip upon her hips. He will quicken his pace. Will shove her face into the ground, fuck her raw.

Will think of Madara when he comes.


End file.
